by J. L. Ashton
He was a handsome man, he was Mr. Bingley’s friend, and he treasured books. It pained her to realise that it made her want to think the best of him. She enjoyed his company far better than she should. It bothered her to find herself thinking so often about this man who came to Hertfordshire to forget his dead bride-to-be and soon would journey on to richer company at finer, larger estates. She had amused him at a time when he needed to be amused. She would know him briefly, and then he would leave, and she would never see him again. In only a handful of meetings, they had talked of books and music, of history and nature. She had never had such conversations with a gentleman who was not her uncle or father. She had never had such conversations with a woman either.
In these few meetings, she had forged many different portraits of him. She still wondered at Miss Bingley’s uncharitable comments and remained confused over this serious man’s lack of profound grief or open mourning. She did not know the intimate particulars of his relationship with Miss de Bourgh but admitted she would carry her mourning quite lightly if she had suffered the loss of Mr. Collins, a cousin of short and intolerable acquaintance. But Mr. Darcy had grown up with his cousin and, despite knowing her to be ill, had been promised to her. He was her betrothed—that was the material point! What was the story of their connection and their engagement? Were his sentiments so shallow, his love so tenuous? Was his grief buried so deeply that it did not show, or had he even loved Miss de Bourgh? Mr. Darcy was rather topsy-turvy with his emotions. Could he perhaps be in denial of his loss and in deep pain?
At times during their walk, Elizabeth had seen her companion look angry, or at least irritated. At other moments, he had laughed, a rich and sonorous sound. He was a handsome man, made handsomer when his eyes crinkled and his cheeks dimpled. He was like no man she had encountered before and so dizzying. She should not notice him or his…handsomeness. Her theories on deep-seated grief were cast off as easily as his so-called heartbreak.
He is the Grieving Groom; he should not be handsome nor should he be laughing. And I should not be noticing.
Elizabeth shifted under the covers and sighed. It seemed impossible that she would miss a man she barely knew or understood. They had spent a lovely time conversing until he withdrew and turned formal in his behaviour as the afternoon waned. Perhaps something had reminded him of his mourning or recalled him to his place in society and the company with whom he was spending time. Perhaps he had realised that their friendly familiarity was an ill-conceived lark, hardly appropriate for the master of Pemberley and a girl from Hertfordshire. It mattered little, she knew, but he confused her, and she badly wanted to figure him out.
Her father was amused merely by the mystery of it all. It was a distance Elizabeth found herself envying.
Chapter Six
Darcy watched as Louisa Hurst ushered her sister from the drawing room. Wine dripped from Miss Bingley’s bodice and angry epithets spilled from her lips. The younger woman’s attempts to secure a dance or three with him for the ball had both exhausted and disgusted him. She had simultaneously disparaged the propriety of mourning while encouraging him to commit himself to her by ruling out the eligibility and reputation of any lady in the area with whom he had become acquainted.
According to Netherfield’s all-knowing social arbitress, Charlotte Lucas was old and plain while her sister Maria was young and possibly cross-eyed. The Bennet girls were cited one by one: too taken with her own beauty (and with Charles); too proud a bluestocking; too plain and pious; too silly and rheumy-eyed; and too stupid and crass. How, Miss Bingley had sniffed, their cousin could ever choose among them for a bride was quite the mystery.
Her oblique reference to Mr. Collins’s plan to wed one of the sisters caused Darcy some confusion. To overhear her telling it—and Hurst seemed to overhear everything and relished in the re-telling to Darcy—“the Dreaded Bennet Sisters of Longbourn are akin to Hercules’s multi-headed hydra.” None of the five girls—after some thought, Darcy had determined there were five Bennet sisters although it seemed the middle one was always missing from the group—appeared to even like the vicar. While that was not a necessity for marriage, he thought himself a keen enough observer to have noticed whether an understanding existed between the man and one of the Bennet ladies.
Miss Bingley’s disclosure about an entail, however, had raised an alarm. If the man was heir to the estate, then of course it would be advantageous for the Bennets to secure him as a husband to one of their daughters. But which one? Darcy realised that he wanted to protect the Bennet sisters. Collins was ill-suited for at least three of them, and based on his own resistance to his aunt’s wishes, he disliked the idea of marriage forced on any man or woman.
But Collins certainly was not a man to keep news of an engagement to himself. Darcy realised he might have missed some intimations by assiduously avoiding the obsequious parson. The last topic he wished to canvass with anyone, let alone an idiotic parson, was the life and odd circumstances surrounding the death of Anne de Bourgh. And that was the only topic Hunsford’s absent vicar seemed to speak about when in his presence. Darcy refused to enquire about the man’s knowledge of the situation at Rosings—it was fairly clear that Collins had left Kent quickly and without being taken into any family confidence.
After the sound of Miss Bingley’s ranting died out, the three men filed into the library. Bingley shut the door and groaned. “I have warned Caroline again and again about her gesticulations! She has knocked over vases and puddings since we were children. Once she bloodied my nose when I unthinkingly wandered into her fist.”
Hurst laughed. “And how she turned on Miss Catherine, whose ‘rheumy eyes’ can only be so from staring adoringly at your sister.”
“Say what?” Bingley gasped.
“’Tis nothing but a young girl idolising a fashionable lady,” Darcy explained. He found Miss Catherine’s fascination with Miss Bingley to be frightening yet refreshingly naïve. “Your sister cuts quite a swath in a small town while cutting the townspeople to the quick.”
“Oh.” Bingley’s face flushed.
Chuckling, Hurst collapsed onto the settee and announced himself done in by the combination of Caroline’s angry soliloquy and the evening’s finely done partridge. “Superb shooting, Darcy. If it is not too much to ask, I have a taste for pheasant tomorrow.”
Even Darcy had to smile. He leaned back against Bingley’s sparsely filled bookshelves and asked his friend whether he had enjoyed his afternoon with Miss Bennet.
“I did.” He sighed contentedly. “I have secured the first dance with her and the supper dance.” He stood up a little straighter.
“And the courtship? She is aware of your intentions?”
Bingley flushed. “I…um…I thought requesting two dances and confirming her feelings on my courtship might be too much for one afternoon.”
“You thought that, Charles?” Hurst sniffed. “Are you certain Caroline had nothing to do with this decision?”
“Lord help me. She is so fierce. I worry for Jane…um, Miss Bennet.” Bingley took a deep breath and rubbed his neck. “Caroline was unhappy to hear about the Bennets’ relations in Cheapside, and she disparaged the connection so much this morning that I felt hesitant to secure the…to make such a…”
Bingley glanced up and saw Darcy’s disapproving stare.
“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.”
“Yes,” Bingley acknowledged, “but they have another who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
“That is capital,” Hurst murmured. “Your sisters could hardly visit there, let alone claim an association.”
“If they had uncles enough to fill all of Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable!”
“But it must materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world.” Darcy
was appalled with himself even as he spoke the words.
“It matters not to me. They appear to be good people. Mr. Gardiner has a number of warehouses, and Jane…um, Miss Bennet told me about her aunt’s recent activity in securing items for her niece’s wedding wardrobe.”
Darcy felt a sudden chill.
“We men know so little of what women go through to prepare for weddings,” Bingley continued. “We ensure the banns are published, draw up the settlement papers, and are fitted for a new waistcoat, all the while dreaming only of the wedding night.”
“Charles!”
“Well, most men do, though perhaps not you, Darcy.”
Hurst snickered. “Always so good and proper.”
Bingley smiled weakly at Darcy and shook his head. “I apologise, my friend. I should not make jokes at your expense, considering…”
“Considering what?” Darcy croaked out.
“Your cousin Anne. I know you were not truly engaged, but I fail to grasp whether you had some understanding with her. By the time you both reached a certain age, perhaps?” He picked up the brandy bottle and began pouring them each a generous serving.
“Of course not. Whatever schemes her mother claimed, none would have come to fruition.” Darcy was beyond tired of thinking on the topic, let alone explaining it. Again. Yet he continued.
“My father made it clear that my aunt’s claims were nothing short of deranged and imparted the importance of a healthy wife in providing an heir.”
“Well, that is quite romantic, my friend.” Hurst laughed and took a hearty gulp of the brandy.
“You could put Cupid into the poorhouse.” Bingley offered a brimming glass to Darcy, who shook his head in refusal.
“Shut it, Bingley,” he growled. “You find beauty and loveliness wherever you go.”
“And you are a far harsher judge of your own needs, Darcy.” Bingley glanced at Hurst as though making a private joke. “A pretty girl with a happy disposition, a dislike of dancing, a love of books, and patience for your dark moods and odd ramblings on Greek philosophy and chess manoeuvres should be easy enough to find, eh?”
Darcy pretended not to hear Hurst’s roar of laughter. “Right.”
“After all, your friends have likely lined up a multitude of eligible ladies at their estates. I wager you will be betrothed before me.” Bingley smirked. “However, if you meet no one, do remember there is always my sister waiting in the wings.”
“Good lord,” Darcy muttered. “Charles Herbert Bingley, I believe I must call you out.”
“What?” Bingley’s voice cracked.
“Pour me half a glass, and I shall find it in me to forgive you,” Darcy grumbled. He pulled a book off the shelf and strode over to the windows.
Bingley prepared a nearly full glass, walked over to his friend, and handed him the drink. “You will stay until after the ball?”
“Yes, of course. The following afternoon, I shall be off to Kenilworth. I have delayed my visit already, and my friends await.” He sipped the brandy and placed it on the table near his favourite chair.
“As do their sisters, I have no doubt.”
Darcy glared at him then sighed. “Yes, as you have already stated. Their sisters and their sisters’ friends.” He sat down, stretched out his legs, and stared out the window. Black clouds were rolling in, and he could feel the temperature dropping as a cooling breeze blew. A rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.
“You seem less than enthusiastic, my friend.” Bingley fell into the room’s other reading chair and stared at Darcy. “Do you wish to keep to your practice of avoiding eligible young ladies? Or would you like to find love and happiness as I have?”
Both men disregarded Hurst’s snort of laughter. “Cupid’s arrow indeed!”
“Bingley…”
“What harm can come to you? It is a late summer sojourn. You may meet a pretty girl or two.”
“Yes. This has been a comfortable respite.” Darcy’s eyes moved back to the window and the roiling clouds outside. “I am not averse to enjoying the company of intelligent young ladies.” I have already enjoyed the company of one and can only hope to find another to match her wit and beauty.
The clock chimed. Hurst looked over and squinted at it, then stood up a bit straighter and adjusted his waistcoat. He took a final gulp of brandy and set down his empty tumbler. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I shall rely on you not to drink all the brandy. I shall return at a later time, undoubtedly in need of a glass or three.”
Darcy and Bingley watched him stroll briskly out of the room.
“Where is he off to?” Darcy asked. Hurst rarely moved with much intent and never with such speed.
Bingley’s cheeks reddened. “Er, Louisa.” He stood up and walked to the doors, closing them firmly before returning to his seat. “It is Thursday.”
“Thursday…” Darcy repeated, his face reddening as realisation dawned.
“Have another brandy. He should be back within the half hour. Or quarter hour.”
Darcy’s eyebrows rose as far as they could.
“I know,” Bingley cried. “It is an absurd amount of time. The walk up the stairs alone…”
“Bingley.”
“Every so often, he does not return. Most often, though, he is absent for at least thirty minutes.” Bingley looked beseechingly at his friend. “I do not care to think on it.”
“But you do like to talk on it.”
“It is just…not quite the way I foresee marriage. If that is all the time I can give my wife, or she give me, I can handle things faster by myself.”
“Bingley! For goodness’ sake, shut it.”
***
“The ball!” Lydia cried. “Lizzy and Kitty have flowers sewn on their gowns! I need some as well! And feathers for my hair and bodice!”
“Lydia, we need not look like peacocks,” Elizabeth said sharply. “Mr. Bingley’s sisters are unsettled enough at hosting a ball so soon after Mr. Darcy lost his cousin.” And quite peeved to be hosting one in the wilds of Hertfordshire. Perhaps I should not have mentioned the legend of the family who kept pigs in the house.
Jane looked at Elizabeth. “This might be a difficult evening for Mr. Darcy, Lizzy.”
“He will bear up. He seems less than wholly melancholy.”
“If Mr. Darcy wants to be unhappy, he should just go back and sulk in London,” Lydia sniffed. “He only talks to his friends and Lizzy. No one wants to dance with him.” Disregarding the exasperated stares of her sisters, she began fitting feathers into the lace on her dress.
“Hush, Lydia,” Kitty ordered. “I think Mr. Darcy is nice. Miss Bingley thinks so as well. He is handsome. He has dimples and a cleft in his chin.”
Yes, he does. And he is. He smiled less often than Mr. Bingley, but he often did so when in her company. She was not sure whether it was appropriate for her to have noticed, and she declined to dwell on whether it was common for him to smile so frequently around a young lady. Did she remind him of his sister, the girl who liked to name animals? Georgiana. She sounded charmingly sweet, if a little innocent.
Elizabeth glanced around the room at her sisters. Lydia and Kitty squabbled over ribbons, and Mary squinted into the mirror while Jane brushed her hair. She loved them all in spite of their imperfections, and she would miss them when she journeyed to London. The change would be refreshing; she would enjoy her relations there and encounter many new, interesting, and strange people. And if she was fortunate, she might hear the roar of a man-eating tiger.
***
Miss Caroline Bingley may not have encouraged her brother to host a ball. She may even have disparaged nearly everyone to whom her brother had extended his hospitality. Although word of their generosity and humiliation was unlikely to seep across county borders and reach
the ears of Those Who Truly Matter, she was not a lady to shirk her commitment nor miss the opportunity to display and provide the finest foods, entertainment, and decoration that Meryton had ever seen.
Unwilling in spirit though he was, Darcy knew his manners, and manners required that he partner Miss Bingley to open the ball. Bingley jumped in heart first and led Miss Bennet to the floor with the Hursts behind them. Darcy extended his arm, and with his eyes focused over Miss Bingley’s head, he smiled, bowed, and performed the steps drilled into him at a young age. He listened to her comments and complaints, and he nodded and congratulated her on her wise choices in flowers and cheeses. Nothing betrayed that his attention was elsewhere, watching as Collins misled Miss Elizabeth and bungled his way through the dance. He saw her cringe and witnessed her tight-lipped smile and brief expression of pain when the parson’s foot made contact with hers. Gadzooks, the man is an atrocious dancer. Add that to Collins’s growing list of sins against Darcy’s refined sensibilities.
As he stared at the cleric, Darcy felt others’ attentions on himself. He sensed that the people of Hertfordshire viewed him slightly askance. He was accustomed to the deference and respect owed to him as a Darcy, but the kind and sometimes sad expressions his presence had generated during his stay were unusual. Bingley attributed it to word having spread of his cousin’s tragic death. Now, as he stood near the punch table and looked around the room, he noticed several looks of disapproval, mayhap of judgment. For having danced with the sister of the ball’s host? Was that, in the phrase overused by Hurst, “quite singular”?
He was appalled. His ears felt hot, as if they were burning. Darcy turned to his left and saw the mothers of the town, their names forgotten, gathered in a circle with their eyes on him. Talking about him, by the looks of it. Me? For doing my unpleasant yet necessary duty? Or is it my house in town you covet? Each lady wore a look of injury, with her face severe and her lips downcast. The plump one in purple was speaking loudly and rapidly to her rapt audience. Frowning, Darcy counted Mrs. Bennet among the group.